


Mine

by mmorgan317



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Malcolm Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 14:37:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20875850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmorgan317/pseuds/mmorgan317
Summary: The serial killer in their latest case catches up with Malcolm and injures him. When he finds out about it, Martin is not happy and decides to inform the killer of what will happen if they touch his son again. Malcolm whump. Father/Son Dynamic. General Family Dynamic. Gil/Malcolm Father/Son Dynamic.





	Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing of Prodigal Son including its characters, actors, plots, anything. 
> 
> Author’s Note(s): So, I have fallen for Prodigal Son so hard it isn’t even funny. Like, I lol when I mention it, but it’s really quite pathetic. On the bright side, though, it has prompted me to try to write for it, so hopefully it’s worth it; meaning, I hope you guys like it. 
> 
> 2: I’m intrigued by the father/son dynamic they have going on in the show. In the pilot, they show Martin manipulating and controlling Malcolm, but they also give us a hint at how Malcolm could easily become the manipulator, playing on his father’s fear of never seeing him again to get whatever he wants, and that’s a dangerous line to toy with. I hope to God they play with it though, because it would be an interesting progression and change.  
Having said that, I’m going to use that viewpoint as a foundation for both Martin’s and Malcolm’s characters. I hope I have their characters right, but since I’ve only had the one episode (now two since the second one came out while I was writing this) to work with, I’m not making any promises.

_He’s coming today!_

The thought kept echoing through Martin’s mind, his excitement building with each repetition. Ever since Berkhead, Malcolm had been careful to keep his visits to a minimum, only coming when he needed help with a profile and thus keeping Martin desperate for every visit. In a way, Martin was proud of the way Malcolm expertly controlled him while not making it obvious he was doing so. Of course, Malcolm wouldn’t put it that way, but Martin didn’t need him to voice it for it to be true. The only downside was that Malcolm didn’t seem to be aware that he was doing it; or at least, if he was, he wasn’t showing that he was.

As the handcuffs snapped closed around his wrists, Martin let out an impatient sigh. These restraints really weren’t necessary. He would never harm his son, but protocol was protocol, he supposed. It didn’t escape him that even with the confinement, Malcolm wouldn’t come within touching distance of him. He also remained informal during their visits, but Martin was sure it was simply a matter of time before that changed.

Malcolm’s footsteps were off as he entered the room, but Martin didn’t have an inkling that anything was wrong until he turned around and got a good look at his son. His smile, which had been broad at first, instantly faded and his brows furrowed as he asked, “Malcolm, what happened?”

Malcolm stood across from him, just inside the door, doing his best not to lean entirely on the pair of crutches which helped keep him balanced. His left leg was stretched out, his heel resting on the ground, with a long, black brace encasing his knee. Malcolm’s posture gave nothing away, his expression a blank mask that Martin was well acquainted with. Still, one could see the pain if one knew where to look. 

“I’m fine,” Malcolm answered, dismissing Martin’s concern with his brisk tone. He inhaled deeply, his hands briefly clenching the handles of the crutches. “I need your help.”

It pained Martin to see how hard it was for his son to say those words. No son should struggle so much to ask their father for help. In the beginning of their visits, Malcolm hadn’t been nearly so hesitant to talk with him. But the more his son had grown, the less open he became until he stopped coming entirely. Now, although the visits were renewed, Malcolm was so completely guarded, so jumpy, that it was all Martin could do not to scare him off.

“Please, sit,” Martin invited, refraining from pointing out how obvious his son’s statement was. “Perhaps you should use both chairs,” he suggested looking at Malcom’s injured leg. “Sit in my desk chair and use the visitor’s chair to support your leg.” He waited a bit and then quickly added, “I’ll stay over here by the bed, if it would make you feel more comfortable.”

Except for a small grimace when he shifted, Malcom’s expression didn’t change. “This killer isn’t copying you,” he informed, clearly ignoring Martin. “But it’s clear he idolizes you.” While Martin tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t incriminate him in one way or another, Malcolm continued, “You know the deal - help me, and I’ll come back.”

Malcolm slowly began to relax as they discussed the case, and the killer. Something about the flow of their conversation was familiar to both of them and it seemed to allow Malcolm to grow more comfortable the more they did it. He couldn’t be prevailed upon to accept Martin’s suggestion of taking both chairs, but he did eventually take the visitor’s chair, lowering himself onto it with slow, careful movements.

It was hard for Martin not to go to his son, to not try and help him when he was hurting, but he knew his help would neither be wanted nor appreciated and he didn’t wish to cause his son more pain by doing something he didn’t want. Martin didn't doubt that if he moved too quickly, especially in the direction of Malcolm, that Malcolm would flinch and probably very violently.

“I have to go,” Malcolm announced after less than half an hour’s conversation. He looked about ready to add more but quickly stopped himself, biting his lip as he leveraged himself off the chair. There was only one topic which Malcolm absolutely refused to discuss with him - family. Which meant that he either had plans with his mother or his sister, or possibly both. Hopefully one of them could get him to take care of himself.

Malcolm stopped when he reached the door, waiting for the orderly on the other side to let him out. He pivoted, the action looking painful, to face Martin. “Thank you, Doctor Whitly.”

“Please,” Martin pleaded, his brows furrowing once more, “take care of yourself.”

Apparently not knowing what to do with that, Malcolm did nothing, remaining silent until the door was opened so he could exit. Martin watched him make his slow way out of sight, then waited another several minutes before the orderly came to unlock his restraints. Once free, and the orderly had once more left him to his own devices, Martin sat down at his desk and began writing a note.

It hadn’t taken him long to discern how Malcolm was injured, and even less time to remember who the killer was. Since he knew them, Martin thought it prudent to give the man fair warning. Not about the police being onto him, that would be obvious to him since he fought with Malcolm. No, he wished to give the man warning about laying hands on his son ever again.

**oOo**

Pain was nothing new to Malcolm. Growing up in a city your father terrorized meant you got your ass kicked more often than not, no matter how rich you were. While he dealt with it easily, often dismissing his own injuries as nothing to be concerned about, his mother and sister focused on them. To say they were protective of him would be both an understatement and false. Ainsley could be overprotective if anything, and Mother tended to ignore what she couldn’t fix. All of which meant that Malcolm really didn’t want to show up for dinner, but he also didn’t need them calling him until he either showed up or they came to him.

The front door to his mother’s house opened before he had even gotten close enough to knock and Ainsley popped her head out. “Malcolm?” she called, clearly wanting to make sure it was him and not some random stranger approaching.

“I’m surprised Mother let you open the door yourself,” he quipped, showing his sister that it was him and she was safe.

“Well, she’s already had more than a few cocktails while we waited for you, so she’s not entirely aware that I left,” she said, remaining in the doorway as she patiently waited for him to enter. As he awkwardly began to shed his coat, Ainsley’s brows furrowed. “What happened?”

Malcolm raised his brows at his sister, his expression showing a mock surprise. “Are you telling me you don’t already know?”

“Believe it or not, I don’t spend every waking moment keeping tabs on you,” she answered, rolling her eyes and taking his coat to hang up in the closet. “So you gonna tell me?” she asked after they had started moving towards the parlor.

“Ains, I’m fine,” he said, knowing it wouldn’t dissuade her but trying nonetheless.

“Malcolm,” his mother greeted, her back to them as she made herself another drink. Her smile in the mirror behind the bar was as genuine as she could manage these days. Malcolm watched her eyes take him in, watched her smile never falter even as it became cooler towards him. Unless he found a nice, rich girl, settled down, and became an important figure in their social circle, Malcolm knew his mother would never approve of what he did. Anything which reminded her that he wasn’t doing what she wanted she ignored, no doubt hoping that if she didn’t acknowledge it, it would just go away. “You might have called to say you would be late,” she chided. “I’ll tell Rita she can serve the dinner now.”

“Lovely to see you again, Mother, as always,” he quipped as she left to do as she said; why Louisa couldn't do that, Malcolm hadn’t a clue. She briefly paused on her way out to give him a look full of snark, then she left him and Ainsley to find their way to the dining room on their own. Not that they couldn’t do it, of course; they’d grown up in this house and knew where everything was by heart.

“So did you fall or?” Ainsley left the question open, probably hoping that he’d fill in the blanks. When Malcolm stayed silent, she sighed. “I got called in on another report,” she said, pausing long enough to judge his reaction before continuing, “the uni’s on the scene just said that a consultant for the NYPD was taken to the hospital for treatment; they didn’t mention that it was you.”

“Good,” Malcolm said, separating himself from the crutches so he could sit down at the table. He didn’t miss how his sister had maneuvered him to the side opposite from the one he usually sat because it would make it easier for him to face them both while keeping his leg elevated. Ainsley took them away from him before he could tuck them close by and placed them against the wall behind him, effectively trapping him in the room. “The less my name is out there, the better.”

“I thought you wanted the world to know how great you are,” Ainsley teased, knowing full well that it was exactly the opposite; though, the idea did, admittedly, appeal to his more vain side. Still, Malcolm didn’t want to take the chance that someone would get too curious about him and find out who he really was. “I’m going to grab a pillow.” 

Before Malcolm had to protest against the need for a pillow, or to prop his injured leg on a chair, his mother broke in with, “No you will not, you will sit down so that Rita can serve the food. Besides, I’ve got Louisa bringing a less expensive pillow for Malcolm to use. Honestly, Ainsley, it’s like you forgot how much those throw pillows cost.”

“It’s good to know my comfort has a price tag,” Malcolm replied, half jokingly, half serious. There was not a doubt in his mind that his mother loved him. The trouble was, that it wasn’t the textbook definition that most people associated with a mother-child relationship. She loved both her children as best as she knew how. Did it often come out as something else entirely? Absolutely. But after thirty plus years, Malcolm was used to it.

Mother gave him another look. “You know very well that wasn’t what I meant,” she said, coming up to the table to pull out the chair on his left. She waited for him to unsteadily stand before she attempted to pivot the chair he’d be sitting in, hovering close by while he sat back down in case he needed help. “Now, tell me Malcolm, have you given _any _thought at all to that Egyptian girl I was telling you about last month?”

**oOo**

By the time the dinner was over, Ainsley could tell her brother was at the end of his patience. Part of that, she knew, was because he was in pain; he did a good job at hiding it, but Ainsley had known her brother too long to be fooled. The rest, she knew, was all because of her mother. As much as Ainsley loved her mother, she could be very trying when she wanted to be, and sometimes when she didn’t want to be.

“Are you _sure _you should be going back to that,” Mom waved a hand airily, “loft? Those stairs are hazardous in your condition.”

Ainsley agreed, but stayed silent. She knew her brother well enough to recognize when he needed to be alone. If that hadn't been the case, she would have already invited him to stay at her place for the night; at least her place was all one level and had an elevator going up to her floor.

"I appreciate your concern, Mother, but I'm better off at home."

"Yes, to be chained to your bed like an animal." Mom rolled her eyes then took another sip of her martini. "I know," she said, forestalling anything that either Ainsley or Malcolm might say, "it's for protection, but honestly, Malcolm, it can't be good for you. And should you really be doing that with your," she waved a hand towards Malcolm's braced knee, "injury? I mean, it's not like you're going to get far anyways, you can't even walk on your own."

Neither Ainsley nor Malcolm pointed that he could easily make the injury worse if that happened since it wouldn’t have made a difference. Instead, Malcolm smiled, "It was nice to see you again, Mother. Thank you for dinner."

Knowing when to push and when to let it go, Mom said nothing more. After she accepted Malcolm's kiss on the cheek, she walked back into the parlor and left Ainsley alone with her stubborn brother.

"She's right, you know," Ainsley couldn't help but say. She didn't intend on trying quite so hard as their mother had, but she wanted her brother to know what she thought. Taking a breath, she almost asked if he was sure he wouldn't rather stay somewhere else for the night, but then she thought better of it and changed her question to, "Can I give you a lift home?" She didn't have a vehicle, but it wasn't hard to get a taxi to come out here.

"So you can spend the entire car ride pressuring me into staying with you?" he answered, the smile in his eyes telling her he was teasing. "No, I'm good. Besides," he stopped just as a familiar car pulled up, "I've got a ride."

"Say hi to Gil for me," she said as he started to make his way to the black Le Mans. Sighing, Ainsley went back inside to say goodbye to her mother then make her own getaway.

**oOo**

After unlocking what Malcolm called the side door to his loft, Gil watched the kid as he slowly made his way over to the bed. Not long into the drive here, the mask Malcolm put on the minute he stepped outside his door slid off, allowing Gil to see the pain it hid. Knowing that Malcolm wouldn't take any pain medication for fear of their side effects, Gil didn't even bother attempt to suggest it, though he sorely wanted to.

This being his first time inside Malcolm's loft, Gil found himself briefly forgetting the kid and staring at the multitude of books which framed the fireplace in the living room. Having their own display case, one would think that the weapons would have drawn Gil's attention, but Gil had always had a weakness for books and he couldn't stop himself from admiring them.

"You can borrow some." Malcolm's voice made Gil jump, though he was able to hide it by turning around to face the kid. "The books," Malcolm added once he had Gil's attention. "You can borrow them, though I wouldn't advise doing too many at a time since you don't seem to have too much free time." He winced as he sat down on the bed, laying his crutches against the wall once he was done.

Gil watched with impatient hands as Malcolm struggled to find a comfortable position on the bed. Gil didn’t like seeing the kid hurt. Ever since he’d met Malcolm, Gil had wanted to protect him. After his father had been imprisoned, Gil had thought that Malcolm’s mother would take over, but that hadn’t been the case at all. Gil had watched as she seemed to take no more or less notice of her son than she previously had and that had saddened him. Gil saw himself as a father figure to Malcolm, but whether or not the kid agreed, he hadn’t asked. In the end, it didn’t matter; until Malcolm told him that he overstepped, Gil would continue doing what he does.

“Need some help?” he offered after watching Malcolm try and fail for a few minutes.

“Yeah,” he answered on a sigh.

Grabbing a pillow from the sofa, Gil approached. Malcolm had managed to get pretty far on his own; he was at least on the bed and almost settled against the headboard. Trouble was, Gil could see just how much it had hurt the kid to do it. He seemed unaware as Gil came closer, his eyes clenched shut in a grimace, his hands on either side of him, clenching the blanket, and his muscles taught as he held himself still.

“Sit forward,” Gil said as he placed the pillow onto the bed by one of the restraints.

If he was being honest with himself, Gil was still struggling with the idea of Malcolm using restraints while he “slept”. Before the incident at the precinct, Gil hadn’t even known that Malcolm _had _night terrors and that bothered him. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing the kid would keep from him for over a decade, but at the same time, Malcolm was too adjusted to all of it for it not to be true. It stung Gil on a fatherly level to know that he might not know the kid as well as he had thought.

As Malcolm did as he was told, Gil rearranged the pillows so that they supported the kid better. “You sure you wouldn’t rather lie down?” he asked while Malcolm settled against the headboard once more. “I find it hard to believe you’re going to sleep sitting up.” He barely slept lying down, for God’s sake.

“Well, we both know I don’t really sleep anyways,” the kid answered, echoing Gil’s silent thought.

“But this way, aren’t you even less likely to sleep?” Gil countered, wanting to make sure the kid would at least get a few hours rest.

“Honestly, I don’t think I’m going to have trouble falling asleep no matter what position I’m in,” Malcolm answered, his eyes drooping.

“Fair enough.” Gil placed the throw pillow beneath Malcolm’s injured leg, Malcolm’s breath hitching as he did so. Gil had to hand it to him, the kid had decent pain tolerance; most people wouldn’t have been nearly as mobile so soon after being injured. Hesitating briefly, Gil then asked, “Do you need some help with the restraints?”

Malcolm looked down at the straps, all energy seemingly gone. “Please,” he said, sighing again.

Feeling like he was tying the kid down for no reason, Gil walked around to the far side of the bed, securing Malcolm’s right wrist first, tightening the strap when he was told it was too loose, and then moving back to the other side for the left. “I’m gonna hang out for a little while,” he said once he was finished.

“You don’t have to,” Malcolm said.

“Well, you said I could borrow some books; might as well get a head start now,” Gil answered easily. “Besides, you may need some help during the night.”

“Thank you, Gil,” the kid answered, now sounding and looking barely awake. “Thank you for always having my back.” Malcolm sighed, his head lolling to his right. “And for loving me,” he added in a mumble.

Gil ruffled the kid’s hair, the action going unnoticed by the man in the bed. “Anytime kid. Anytime.”

**oOo**

“Emil Doherty?”

Emil looked up from the beer he’d been nursing. Ever since his run-in with the NYPD, he’d been moving from hole-in-the-wall pub to hole-in-the-wall-pub, keeping an eye out for his next target while making sure that he didn’t stay in one place long enough to be memorable. How, then, the man before him had found him, Emil wasn’t sure, but he knew he didn’t like it. “Who’s asking.”

“An associate of Doctor Martin Whitly.”

Shit. Of all the people Emil knew, Martin was the last person he wanted to hear from. They had met briefly before martin had gotten caught by his son, and though Emil would never call The Surgeon a friend, he had made sure never to get on his bad side. Judging by the man in front of him, that had changed. “What can I do for Doctor Whitly?”

“He kindly requests that you keep your hands off his son,” the man answered, not bothering to mince words.

It took a moment for Emil to connect the dots, but when he did, he felt his stomach sink. “You’re referring to the profiler for the NYPD,” he surmised. “If I had known who he was, I wouldn’t have dared to harm him.”

“Irrelevant,” the man said, his tone as emotive as a computer’s.

Emil nodded to show that he heard and understood. Even though fear coursed through him, he was certain that he was in no immediate danger; if The Surgeon had wanted him dead, he’d be dead. Still, Whitly was not the kind of man one offended lightly. “Is there more to the message?”

Rather than answer, the man pulled an envelop from the inside of his coat and tossed it onto the table. “Try to be more cautious with your work,” he said, his tone relaying The Surgeon’s disdain. “You’re getting sloppy.”

Emil waited for the man to be completely out of sight before he let out a heavy sigh of relief. Although Emil wasn’t acquainted with the man who’d just been here, there was a sense of danger about him that had been palpable. While he waited for his heart rate to slow back down to a normal rhythm, Emil grabbed the envelop and opened it. Inside was a short letter in Martin’s unmistakeable handwriting.

_My Dear Emil,_

_Please be advised that should you ever touch my son again, I will kill you in the most painful way I can imagine. Do not think yourself safe merely because I am in here; my reach is long and my imagination boundless._

_Sincerely,_

_M.W._

_P.S. You may want to consider relocating for a bit; the NYPD won’t miss a second time._

Seeing no reason to dally any longer, Emil did as he was bid. If there was one thing everyone knew when coming to New York it was this: Don’t ever cross Martin Whitly.

** _Fin_ **


End file.
